LITMIR.BIZ

      One

      Jace Lockhart maneuvered the Jeep up the steep mountain road. Every once in a while he cracked the window and sucked in frigid air to stay alert. He’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours now. First the flight from Bosnia to Paris to New York. Then the long lines for Customs at La Guardia. Then another flight to El Paso, where he’d waited yet again to rent a vehicle.

      He opened the window, filling his lungs. Then, for good measure, he fiddled with the radio until he found Springsteen and cranked it up a notch. The motion of the windshield wipers seemed just a little too hypnotic. He didn’t need to fall asleep at the wheel. On top of that, the rain had turned to snow, and the winding roads were slick with ice, demanding complete concentration. He couldn’t afford to take his mind off the treacherous route for even a second.

      Not that he minded. Anything was better than the dark thoughts that had been crowding his mind for the past months. All he’d been able to think about was Ireina. The way she’d looked, in the instant when the bomb had struck. And the sound of her screams, echoing through his mind, as she’d been torn from his arms. And the shattered body he’d had to identify at the makeshift morgue.

      Even in sleep there was no release. The sights, the sounds, the horror of it all stalked him nightly, leaving him dreading a return to his bed.

      It had been Brad Thompson, the overseas director of news at the network, who had first broached the subject of a leave of absence. At first Jace had resisted, believing that hard work was the cure. He’d plunged himself into even more work than before. He accepted endless assignments that nobody else wanted to cover, in far-flung towns and villages in eastern Europe. He’d slept in run-down hostels and flea-bitten inns, chasing stories of hatred and bombing and terrorism, of neighbor attacking neighbor, village against village, until, eventually, he’d begun to think there was nothing good

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